The Night Olivia Fell

PROLOGUE

You want the truth? I’m— My admission was cut off by a streak of blazing hot pain as something exploded against the side of my head. My brain barely registered the blow, my vision a dusky blur of red, pain searing into my skull and down my jaw. I felt my body spin with the force of it.

I reeled backward until my legs whacked against the low cement wall and I tumbled over, my body hurtling sideways across the ledge. A dark fog pressed against my outer vision, and before I knew it I was falling, plunging into empty space.

I hit the river on my back, my eyes fastened on the bridge’s soaring spires illuminated by a flickering streetlamp.

Then the shadowy water tipped me under.

1

ABI

october

I woke abruptly, dreams tumbling from me in cottony wisps. I couldn’t remember falling asleep, but the lamp on my bedside table had been switched off, the only light a full, glowing moon outside my window.

The phone was ringing.

Olivia? I murmured, hoping she’d get it so I wouldn’t have to. My daughter was one of those people who could wake up and fall asleep as if flipping a switch.

I rolled over and peered at my alarm clock. The red lights blinked 4:48 a.m. Nobody called at this time of night with good news.

I bolted upright and grabbed the phone, the feather duvet sliding from my body, leaving my bed-warmed arms cold and exposed.

Hello?

Hello, is this Abigail Knight? The voice—a man’s—was low and tight, coiled like a viper about to strike.

Yes.

This is Portage Point Hospital. It’s about your daughter, Olivia. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.

×  ×  ×

I ran down the hall to Olivia’s room, cold wings of fear fluttering in my stomach.

Her door was shut and I threw it open thinking, irrationally, that she’d sit up in bed blinking her eyes at me sleepily. I imagined, hoped, that she’d be angry at me for invading her teenage space. She’d throw a pillow at me, and I’d laugh weakly, clutching my chest with one hand as my heart rate returned to normal.

I had a terrible dream, I’d say.

I’m fine, Mom, she’d reply, looking at me with all the scorn a seventeen-year-old could muster. You worry too much.

But her room was silent and empty, her bed a jumble of blankets. Dirty clothes spilled from the laundry basket in her half-open closet. Sheaves of paper were scattered in a disorganized jumble on her dresser.

I lurched out of the room, down the stairs, and into my car.

Last night, at the Stokeses’ barbecue, she’d been fine.

But, no. I shook my head, really remembering. No, she wasn’t fine. She hadn’t been fine for a while.

Maybe it was just the typical moodiness of a teenager, but this felt different. Olivia was usually sunny and sweet. She was an easy teenager. The girl who never partied, got straight As, helped all her friends with their homework.

Lately she seemed distracted and temperamental, irritable whenever I asked what was wrong. And then there were the questions about her father.

She wants the truth.

The thought came fast, an ugly surprise. I set my teeth against it. I’d worried for so long that all the lies I kept hidden on the dark side of my heart would one day be washed into the open. These lies, my past, kept me always on guard.

×  ×  ×

October drizzle coated the car, and a handful of brown leaves covered the windshield. The acidic feeling in my stomach clawed its way up toward my throat as I wrenched the car door open and threw myself inside. For once my old beater car started without any hesitation, as if it too knew we had to hurry.

I tore out of the driveway, my tires spinning in the gravel. I flicked the wipers on, but a single dead leaf was caught, wiping a jagged, wet arc across the windshield, back and forth, back and forth.

I thought of the last time I’d gone to the hospital with Olivia—she’d broken her arm falling out of the ancient willow tree in the backyard when she was ten. My guilt had been overwhelming. I’d failed at the most important job I would ever have: keeping her safe.

I gripped the leather steering wheel hard, securing myself to the present while the past threatened to overtake me. My car squealed as I whipped around a corner too sharply. I was being reckless, I needed to slow down, but Olivia . . .

I couldn’t even finish the thought. My daughter was my center of gravity, the only thing tying me to this earth. Without her, I’d surely float into space, a kite with its string severed by glass.

I pressed my foot hard against the accelerator as my knees began to shake. The decaying leaf was still stuck to the wiper but it had been ripped in half now, leaving the shape of a broken heart behind.

I braked sharply as I rounded the last corner and skidded into the hospital parking lot. It was nearly empty, one ambulance parked at the front, a handful of cars scattered across the lot. Streetlamps glinted against the wet pavement. I slammed on my brakes in a spot near the entrance just as the last half of the leaf in my windscreen was mercilessly ripped away.

×  ×  ×

I staggered into the hospital, cracking my elbow hard on the sliding door. Pain seethed toward my fingertips but didn’t slow me down. I needed to find Olivia.

Please, please be okay.

A doctor appeared suddenly from a set of swinging doors. His steps were brisk, the swift, resolute walk of a man who knew what he was doing. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were bloodshot when they landed on me.

Abigail Knight? I could just make out the clipped voice I’d heard on the phone. He had thinning white hair and a close-shaven face. Around his neck hung a stethoscope. His white coat had a rust-colored smear across the front.

He stepped closer and held one hand out to me. His eyebrows, thick as caterpillars, were pinched together.

Where’s Olivia? I gasped, feeling like I would hyperventilate. People were staring, but I didn’t care. Where’s my daughter?

I tried to sidestep him, but he moved his body to block me.

I’m Dr. Griffith. He took a step closer. I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Will you come with me?

Why? My voice sounded too high, the words crushed on my tongue. Where’s Olivia?

I’m going to take you to her, but first we need to talk. Perhaps somewhere a bit more private. The doctor’s tone conveyed the gravity of what he had to say. The weight of it kept the frantic questions in my throat from vomiting out.

I looked around at the busy waiting room. A handful of people openly stared at us, while the rest fiddled with cell phones or pretended to read newspapers.

I nodded, a small jerk of my chin.

Dr. Griffith led me through the swinging doors and down a brightly lit corridor to a private meeting room. The room smelled of floral potpourri and was decorated in pale pastels. The floor was shiny, the color of cinnamon, the walls a washed-out cream.

Please. Sit. Dr. Griffith motioned toward a cushioned taupe chair. I sat stiffly on the edge.

He crossed to a water cooler in the corner of the room. A hulking tower of plastic cups, white, like vertebrae, leaned on a low black table next to it. He swiped one and filled it with water. The cooler gurgled and belched as air drifted to the top.

He thrust the cup toward me, but I just stared at it. I couldn’t seem to get my hand to take it. Eventually he set it on the table.

Dr. Griffith dragged a plastic chair from the wall and placed it across from me. The scraping of its feet against the floor set my teeth on edge. He sat, planted both feet on the ground, pressed his elbows against his knees, and steepled his fingers, as if in prayer.

There’s been an accident— he said, repeating his earlier words.

Is Olivia okay? I interrupted.

But the way he was looking at me. With pity. I knew.

An intense desire to run hit me. My shins still burned from my run yesterday morning, my thigh muscles ached, but I felt the pang hit my body hard.

I jumped up, looking around wildly. The doctor stood, eyeing me as if I were a wild animal. But the urge to know kept me rooted to my spot.

Tell me. . . . I rasped.

Your daughter . . . Dr. Griffith touched my forearm. His hand was heavy, cool against my clammy skin.

He said something about an accident.

Somebody finding Olivia at the bottom of an embankment near the ZigZag Bridge.

Something about a grand mal seizure, corneal reflexes, and a Glasgow score of four.

He said something about a head wound, about fixed and dilated pupils and a CAT scan.

That they’d taken her in for surgery as soon as she’d arrived.

I couldn’t make sense of any of it.

I collapsed on the chair, bending forward until my head was between my knees, as if preparing for a crash landing. I could hear my heart throbbing in my chest, the blood roaring in my ears, the harsh hiss of my breath as it rushed in and out of me in sharp, hollow gasps. My elbow throbbed painfully where I’d banged it.

No . . . no . . . I pleaded over and over, clenching and unclenching my sweat-soaked hands.

The doctor sat next to me, his voice breaking through the heavy, viscous bubble surrounding me.

—sustained severe head trauma. I’m really sorry, Mrs. Knight, but your daughter has suffered permanent and irreversible brain damage.

My mind reeled, trying to assimilate these facts into something that made sense. Shards of his words assaulted me through a roar of panic.

Is there someone we can call . . . ?

Who was there? My mom was dead. I never knew my dad. There was no husband, no boyfriend. I was too busy being a mother to date, too busy to have friends. There was only . . .

My sister. My voice sounded very far away, as if it came from down the hall rather than my own mouth.

I wrote Sarah’s number on a scrap of paper. He took it and opened the door, handed it to somebody, then sat back down across from me.

I’m so sorry, Mrs. Knight, we did everything we could to save her, but Olivia won’t wake up. Right now she’s attached to life support that’s keeping her body alive. He licked his lips, on the verge of saying something else. But she . . .

She’s an organ donor, I whispered numbly.

It was what they wanted, wasn’t it? The day she got her driver’s license Olivia had signed up to save another’s life. You know, she’d said, shrugging with the confidence the young have that they’re impervious to death. If it ever came to that. My kind, gentle girl.

No, that’s not— What I mean to say is, we can’t legally turn Olivia’s life support off in her condition.

I didn’t understand. It was as if he had suddenly started speaking Urdu. A throb began pulsing under my eyes.

He cleared his throat, his eyes scurrying momentarily away from mine. We can’t turn life support off from a pregnant woman. Not in Washington State.

Wh—? I breathed. My body went limp, boneless, my head spinning.

Olivia was—is—Olivia’s pregnant.

2

OLIVIA

april, 6 months earlier

The yellow school bus swayed slowly past the glimmering sea that fringed Portage Point and headed toward Seattle: our day-trip destination.

Ughh, the bus is so bo-o-oring. My best friend, Madison, flopped back in her seat next to me. She took a compact from her purse and started sweeping powder across her already-matte nose.

We were heading to the University of Washington for the start of our two-day college tour. I didn’t know why she was complaining. Being away from school was like a vacation.

Madison tossed her long dark hair and peeked over her shoulder. I knew she was looking at Peter and barely resisted rolling my eyes. Madison could be totally ADD when it came to guys.

I slid the cool metal of my charm bracelet through my fingers. At least we’re out of school, I said.

Too bad we can’t do something fun. She applied a shiny layer of cotton-candy-pink gloss to her lips and smacked them loudly. Filling out college applications is totally lame.

I bit my cheeks so I wouldn’t say anything. Madison’s parents were rich. She didn’t really feel the same pressure I did about college.

My mom, on the other hand, scrimped and saved every penny so I could go to college after I graduated next year. Four years of tuition was totally going to break her. I kept offering to get a part-time job, but she’d just say my job was to study hard and do well in school.

I stared past Madison out the bus window and chewed a lock of hair. Sunlight slid through the window, interrupted every so often by the shade of passing trees.

Did you see Zitty Zara’s new zit this morning? Madison stage-whispered. I think there’s a science experiment happening on her forehead.

Don’t be mean! I smacked her softly, trying not to laugh. Zara did have gross skin, but I felt bad for her.

Don’t they have Accutane now? Madison continued. Why doesn’t she take it?

She’d dropped all pretense of whispering, so I shot her a warning look. Zara was only a few rows in front of us. I didn’t want her hearing.

But Madison ignored me. She could be mean. Like, hurtfully mean. Once in fourth grade we got in a fight, and Madison got all the girls in our class to stop talking to me. Girls who’d been my friends just forgot to save me a seat on the bus or invite me to their sleepovers. I’d never forgotten that feeling of not belonging, like wearing someone else’s shoes and feeling the pain all over. Since then I’d made sure never, ever to get on Madison’s bad side.

What’s in a zit anyway? she asked.

I snickered. It’s pus, you idiot.

"Eww. God, even the word is gross. Puh, puh, puh-sss." She leaned hard on the p sound. I laughed out loud. "Puh-ss, she enunciated. It’s like an ejection from your mouth. A voiding of puh-ss from a puh-stule."

Oh God! Gross! I gasped, breathless from concealing my laughter.

A few rows ahead, Zara turned around. We both ducked below the seat in front of us, laughing hysterically.

My phone beeped, and I pulled it from my backpack. It was my mom.

Knock knock

Who’s there? I texted back.

Mom: Olive

Me: Olive who?

Mom: Olive ya Olivia!

I laughed and sent her a row of x’s and o’s just as Tyler’s head popped up over the back of our seat.

Hey, babe. His amber-flecked hazel eyes crinkled in a smile.

My boyfriend was your typical high school athlete. He was captain of the football team, had lettered in every sport he did, and was working toward a football scholarship to UW. He was way popular, and he knew it. Like, in a confident way, not in a dickhead way.

He leaned down and licked my earlobe, trying to be seductive. I giggled and lurched away from him. He frowned, looking slightly put out.

God, you guys! Get a room! Madison huffed loudly.

Heat spread up my neck and into my cheeks. Madison could be such a bitch sometimes. Mom told me I should stand up to her. Tyler said I always saw the best in people.

The truth was, neither of them was right. I was just scared of not being liked.

Just then Tyler’s friend Peter leaned over the seat next to Tyler. Jesus, you’re the color of a tomato, Liv! he hooted.

He reached out to touch my flaming cheek, but Tyler smacked his hand away, eyes blazing. Don’t touch her, man.

My cheeks burned even hotter, but Peter just laughed.

You’re such a lunatic. Madison rolled her eyes flirtatiously.

Tyler’s eyes tightened and his jaw clenched. Shut up, Madison. You’re just salty ’cause you can’t get a boyfriend.

I forced a loud laugh. At least my face isn’t as red as your hair, Peter, I joked, trying to defuse the situation.

Whatever, asshole. Madison twisted in her seat so she could scowl out the bus’s window. She popped the earbuds to her iPhone in her ears and turned the volume up until I could hear the tinny beat of pop music.

Ignore her. Tyler tugged me from my seat and sat in my place, pulling me onto his lap and nuzzling my cheek. Tyler and Madison had never really gotten along. She thought he was way too needy.

With his wavy blond hair and hazel eyes, Tyler was the hottest guy in school. I’d worked hard for my seat at the popular table, but that seat had only been firmly cemented when Tyler and I started dating. And it felt nice being his girlfriend. But it was still mortifying when he tried to make out with me in front of everybody.

I’ve been thinking about yesterday, Tyler whispered in my ear.

I blushed again, blood pulsing in my ears. I looked around, hoping nobody could hear him.

Yesterday we’d had a heavy make-out session in my room before my mom got home from work. He got a little too excited, and I’d felt so pressured I burst into tears. He could be like that sometimes: too insistent and intense. But weren’t all boys?

He leaned away from me and cracked his neck. I shuddered, grossed out by the sound of his bones popping.

I’m sorry about . . . you know, he said. It’s just, I love you. I think we’ve been together long enough to show it that way.

Soon, okay? I’m just not ready yet.

I was thinking. . . . He leaned closer and kissed my cheek wetly. Maybe one of these weekends we could make it extra special? Go somewhere, just us? You could tell your mom you’re spending the night at Madison’s.

I wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he sounded. What would we do, rent a hotel room for the night? Besides, I didn’t want to have sex yet. I wasn’t going to be one of those stupid knocked-up teenagers—like my mom was.

But I didn’t say that. Instead I smiled and said: Sure, yeah, maybe. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and if it would make him happy, I’d let him think we could go away for a night.

The bus lurched to a stop, and I realized we’d arrived at the University of Washington.

We’re here! somebody shouted from the front of the bus.

Madison pulled her earbuds out and pointed out the window. There’s everybody else!

I followed her gaze. A group of about forty teenagers was gathered at the end of the parking lot. Half of them were wearing casual clothes, but the other half were dressed in matching uniforms: the girls in green tartan skirts with green blazers and knee-high stockings, the boys in gray pants and green ties.

Preppy dicks! Peter shouted. A slice of sunlight shone on his red hair and lit the smattering of freckles across his face. He was watching Madison, waiting for a reaction. For his sake, I hoped he stayed away from her. She would eat him alive, and Peter was actually a pretty nice guy. Tyler called her a thot behind her back. If she weren’t my best friend, I’d probably agree. She’d go out with a different guy every weekend, then dump him the next day.

Fuckheads! Tyler’s friend Dan shouted.

Bold and bullish, Dan was a fat little tryhard, but his overconfidence and arrogance meant nobody stood up to him. Tyler thought Dan was hilarious. I thought he was a jerk.

Watch your mouth, guys! Mr. Parks, our PE teacher who was running this little field trip, yelled from the front of the bus. Come on, off the bus.

We stepped out into the glorious spring sunshine. It was one of those pristine Seattle days when the rain has finally stopped, leaving behind a scrubbed blue sky. The air had just a hint of warmth in it, a promise that more days like this would soon follow.

Cherry trees coated in frothy pink and white blossoms peeked from between towering evergreens. In the distance I could see the start of Greek Row, a collection of Tudor, Gothic, and Georgian fraternity and sorority houses.

Over here, guys! Mr. Parks waved his arms to us, his beefy biceps rippling under his white polo shirt. We shuffled over, and Mr. Parks made introductions: Portage Point High, Ballard High, and Seattle Catholic Academy, the Catholic kids in the uniforms.

Somehow we’d faced off so we were separated into three groups, but once we’d been introduced, everybody started talking to each other.

Tyler had an arm draped around my shoulder, tucking me tightly against his body. Madison was just to the right of me. I felt comfortable, safe, secure in my world.

And then I saw her.

Just steps from me was a girl wearing the green school uniform of Seattle Catholic Academy. She had long, pale blond hair, sharp Slavic cheekbones, a pointed nose, and a slightly off-center dimple in her chin.

As she swung her eyes toward me, I felt my world slipping toward the edge of a cliff I didn’t even know existed.

She looked like she could be my sister.

The girl’s eyes widened when she saw me, emphasizing the unusual shade of forest green: just like mine.

In that instant, as I looked at the face I’d known my entire life, I felt myself tumble over that cliff. I didn’t know how far I would fall or how hard I would crash, only that nothing would ever be the same.

3

ABI

october

Do you understand what I’m saying, Mrs. Knight?

I blinked at Dr. Griffith, not sure I’d heard him right.

Your daughter is pregnant. He spoke slowly, as if I were a child unable to grasp his words. Olivia’s suffered irreversible brain damage and she won’t wake up, but Washington State law prohibits us from turning off life support. We have to give the fetus the best chance at surviving. Do you understand?

I nodded and shook my head at the same time. I did understand, but it made no sense, as if he’d grabbed random words from a dictionary and pasted them into a sentence.

Wha—?

A knock at the door interrupted me, and a pink-scrub-clad nurse with the sad, droopy face and flabby jowls of a Saint Bernard entered.

Mrs. Knight, your sister—

Sarah burst past the nurse, elbowing her way into the room. Her blue eyes were laced with red, the translucent skin of her lids as raw and puffy as mine. She grabbed my hand, and I stared at her fingers. Her nails were smooth and perfectly oval, shining red, the color of fresh blood. Even now in the middle of the night, her long, perfectly highlighted hair swung and shone under the anemic hospital lights.

She pulled me in for a hug so hard it hurt my ribs. I stiffened and she dropped her arms, a shadow of hurt crossing her face. It had always been there, this slight distance between us. My fault, admittedly, but I no longer knew how to stop it.

Where’s Olivia? Is she okay? What happened? Why was she out in the middle of the night?

The questions were rapid as a machine gun, asked in Sarah’s most demanding mom voice. The one she’d been practicing since I was ten and she was twenty, when our mother left me on Sarah’s front step with nothing but a backpack of dirty clothes. She’d gone home and killed herself that very day, leaving Sarah to raise me.

I shook my head, tears rising in my throat.

She . . . she . . .

I didn’t know why Olivia was out in the middle of the night.

After my bath, I’d had some wine and then gone to bed with a book. I was asleep while my daughter was out doing . . . what?

The dark fog of anxiety swirled violently around me.

Panic: my old friend.

Mrs. Knight? I heard from somewhere far away.

My vision blurred and a high-pitched whining droned in my ears. I couldn’t hold it away anymore. I crashed to the ground.

Abi! People rushed around me, hands lifted me up, pushed me into a chair.

I was sweating heavily. The air was like molasses, weighted like water.

Somebody pressed a paper bag into my hands, and I heard Sarah’s soothing voice speaking to me from a great distance.

Breathe. There you go. In, then out. In, then out.

I used to have panic attacks all the time as a kid. But I’d learned to control my emotions, stamping them out like the flames of a fire. Sarah always said I should talk about my feelings, get them out there, but I knew it was better to push them away, pretend everything was okay. It was better not to feel anything.

Somehow, without me even wanting to, my breathing evened, my heart rate slowed. And then my hearing came back. Dr. Griffith and Sarah were talking.

What happened? Sarah asked.

Sarah was good at being composed in tough situations. She never seemed desperate or panicky. I felt a stab of anger that she could manage this. I couldn’t even ask the right questions.

A retired paramedic found Olivia on the banks of the ZigZag River, next to the bridge. We don’t know if she fell from the bridge or—well, the police will investigate, Dr. Griffith replied. He was crouched in front of me, holding one of my hands tightly in his. His skin felt dry and cool against my sweaty palm.

Sarah shifted in her seat next to me, her hand holding the paper bag to my mouth. People come out of comas all the time— she began.

Olivia isn’t in a coma, he interrupted gently. Comas are usually from a localized injury. Olivia’s suffered a massive bleed, which has damaged almost every part of her brain. I’m so sorry, I know this is hard to understand and even harder to accept, but Olivia isn’t going to wake up.

Grief hurtled toward me, crashing into me and beating inside my chest like a giant, furious animal.

And she’s pregnant? I whispered.

Yes, Dr. Griffith replied.

I looked at Sarah. Her jaw worked, as if she were chewing leather.

How far along? I asked.

We’ll do an ultrasound to find out for sure, but the HCG hormone indicates about thirteen or fourteen weeks.

I thought back to what we were doing three months ago. It would’ve been July. Olivia was out of school. She was studying for her driver’s test, taking practice SAT tests, swimming, hanging out with her friends.

We hadn’t done anything special. Money was always tight, and I was saving for the tuition I knew I’d have to pay when Olivia went to college. I couldn’t put my finger on when something might’ve changed, when she would’ve gotten pregnant. She must not have known. She would’ve told me if she’d known.

Surely the baby’s been exposed to radiation, chemicals . . . ? Sarah trailed off.

Dr. Griffith winced. Yes. Possibly. Probably. We do a standard pregnancy test when female patients are admitted, but it was delayed by the surgery.

A dusty vent blew stale air into the room, the noise an obnoxious whine. Sarah and Dr. Griffith had lapsed into silence.

I want to see her. Right now. My voice was hollow and flat.

Of course, Dr. Griffith said immediately.

Sarah helped me to my feet, and we followed the doctor down the corridor, toward the ICU.

Despite the harsh reality of the stark white hallway, a part of me still clung to the faint hope that Olivia wasn’t here—that this was all some horrible mistake, some silly clerical error. Not my daughter.

Dr. Griffith walked briskly to the end of the hallway and turned left, then waved a security badge at a locked door. Inside the ICU Jen Stokes, Olivia’s best friend’s mother, hovered over a bed that was surrounded by beeping, clunking machines. A stethoscope dangled from her neck.

Dr. Stokes, Dr. Griffith greeted her.

Jen? I stared at my neighbor. Just a few hours ago, I’d been at a barbecue at her house, and now we were standing in the ICU. She was wearing faded jeans and an old Seahawks jersey under a lab coat. Her eyes were red, her dark curls a messy halo around a pale face. Her hands were clasped into tight fists and pressed into her belly.

What are you doing here? I asked.